Pick me up
by AngstAngstAngstLove
Summary: Post 10x3. Sam is drinking and trying to forget. Dean will never stop being a big brother. drunk!Sam, sick!Sam


Sam was tired; tired of the fighting, tired of the betrayal, tired of the lies. He knew he was as much to blame for the current state of affairs between himself and his brother as Dean was, but he also knew they couldn't move forward and mend their broken relationship alone, suspicious and with their feelings hurt.

Feelings hurt…like they were a couple of pansy girls who had nothing better to do than lament over a supposed wrong-doing that made them feel sad and damaged their egos and pride. He shook his head at the ridiculousness of it, though he couldn't deny that as hardcore of a hunter as he was, his feelings were still able to be hurt like a prepubescent girl.

He had always idolized his big brother; he had always wanted to be just like Dean. Even when he was an awkward preteen and wanted nothing to do with conflict, when all he wanted from the world was to live a normal life and have normal hobbies and make good grades, he still channeled his 'inner Dean' and would take care of business when necessary. He wasn't as cool, as suave or as popular as his older brother was as a child, and he certainly didn't have the same 'fuck everyone' attitude that Dean carried around and wore proudly. Sam was more concerned with doing the right thing, keeping things fair and being honest, working hard and proving himself. Still, there was a tiny part of him that wished he could turn off his brain and be like his brother. That never really went away, even as adults, he often wished he could be more like Dean.

Except for times like today, when Dean's personality made him want to rip his own hair out.

He knew Dean couldn't control what the demon part of him was saying, he knew it wasn't his brother speaking, but that knowledge didn't make the words hurt any less. Sam had always carried around a great deal of guilt and pain, reflecting upon the hardest moments of his life as a reminder not to make the same bad choices, not to choose the wrong path once more. As children, Dean had done his best to teach Sam to let those bad experiences go and not dwell upon things that could not be changed or undone, but Sam had never mastered that skill.

Even now, he often reflected upon his past transgressions. He wondered if Dean knew, though it was a no-brainer since Dean knew Sam better than Sam knew himself at times. He moved from where he had been standing at the kitchen counter to the table, where he swirled around the bourbon in his glass and took a swig, wincing as it burned down his throat. The liquid sloshed in his stomach and threatened to come back up, but he swallowed with determination and laid his head on the table, resting across his folded arms. He knew he shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach; even with his large frame and history of drinking, it didn't take much to incapacitate him if he hadn't prepared his body for an onslaught of alcohol. For the last several weeks, he hadn't cared about being incapacitated by alcohol or the hangovers that followed; it had been a daily occurrence to try to find out information about Dean and Crowley's whereabouts and upon failure, to drown himself in a bottle of liquid poison until he passed out either from consumption or weakness after vomiting from binge drinking. Tonight, though, Dean was back and he didn't want to have to explain himself if Dean caught him worshipping the porcelain altar after over-indulging. He was just too tired to fix himself a sandwich, so instead he focused on keeping his liquor down and returned to his thoughts.

Tonight wasn't the first night Dean had said hurtful things, out of his control or not, and Sam wasn't surprised that Dean had managed to hit every sore spot in Sam's self-esteem and sanity. It was a pitfall of spending nearly every waking moment together, from being raised in such tight quarters; they simply knew too much about each other and knew exactly what to say to hurt each other the most. Sam had been guilty of the same on more than one occasion. Knowing Dean wasn't in control of his words, though, made little difference because hearing those words from Dean's mouth _hurt _regardless of the circumstances.

It was true, though. Dean hadn't said anything that Sam himself hadn't pondered from time to time. Sam had more than enough to feel guilty for, more than enough to pay for because he had made one bad choice after another from the start. He had gone away to college, thus meeting Jess and getting her murdered. He had been driving the car that was responsible for nearly killing Dean and the deal that cost their father his life. He had gotten stabbed, which caused Dean to make a deal for his life, and then had been unable to protect and save Dean from paying once that deal came due. The demon blood, the apocalypse, Ruby…Lucifer, the acts he committed while without a soul, being nearly incapacitated by hallucinations, not looking for Dean while he was in purgatory, the trials and to top it all off, the way he had treated Dean over the past year after the angel possession; the hurtful things he had said that he knew he didn't mean but said anyway and the fact that he waited until Dean was dying in his arms to even try to made amends. That laundry list didn't even include the horrible things he had done to find his brother within the last few weeks. He didn't blame Dean for being a demon, for saying those hurtful things, for wanting to be as far away from Sam as possible…Sam deserved it and more. He was poison and he brought trouble wherever he went. He was a monster.

Sam refilled his glass and promptly swallowed the amber liquid down, wanting – no, needing – to be drunk enough to forget about what had happened over the last few hours. Dean's voice echoed in his head, harsh words and phrased repeating with no way to stop them. "Your very existence sucked the life out of my life." Another refill. "My mother would still be alive if it wasn't for you." Slamming back another glass of bourbon, wishing it was something that would take his thoughts away faster. "I chose the king of hell over you."

Sam refilled his glass, but didn't slam this one back; instead, he worked on keeping the rest of the alcohol he had already ingested in his gut and not on the kitchen floor. It had to remain inside of him if it were to work its magic and make him forget the rest of the world existed. His stomach churned painfully and he once again rested his head against the table, his breath hitching as he remembered other times Dean had known exactly what to say to tear him down. "Well, let's go through some of Sammy's greatest hits. Drinking demon blood? Check. Being in cahoots with Ruby? Not telling me that you lost your soul? Or how about running around with Samuel for a whole year, letting me think that you were dead while you were doing all kinds of crazy? Those aren't mistakes, Sam. Those are choices!" Again, at the time Dean hadn't been in control of his actions, but he was just airing out the truth. He picked up his glass, preparing to gulp down the contents, but was unable to as he felt the liquor he had previously ingested burning his throat as it tried to escape. He swallowed, panting slightly as he tried to gain control over his body. His movements were clumsy and sluggish as he put his glass back down on the table, a sure sign that the alcohol was doing its job, though it wasn't helping with his thoughts and memories.

What if it wasn't the demon talking? What if that was actually Dean? He had always been well aware that Dean had given up his childhood to raise him and he hadn't done a good job of repaying the favor with the lousy choices he had made as an adult. Sometimes he wondered why Dean had even gotten him from Stanford in the first place; he would have been safer and happier if he didn't have to watch out for his screw-up little brother all the time.

As that thought settled in his mind, the slightly queasy feeling from the bourbon turned into full out nausea and he forced back a surge of liquor that threatened to assault him. He couldn't stand the idea that Dean actually felt this way about him, that he was actually as alone as he had felt over the last few weeks. He stood, swaying in his spot for a few moments and then groaned quietly. It was just his luck that instead of forgetting after getting completely blitzed, he couldn't escape his thoughts and was likely going to be sick as a dog to boot. He gripped the back of his chair tightly, trying to steady himself so he could at least make it back to his room and pass out on his bed. It took several minutes, but finally he was able to take a few steps without falling over and he was going to accept that as a victory.

"Sammy?"

Dean's voice echoed down the hallway and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the voice of his older brother. He had been 'Sammy' his whole life as far as Dean was concerned, and even when Sam corrected him and acted annoyed, it was only an act because it was Dean's way of showing affection. Now, though, with the demon-Dean using his nickname in that hate-filled tone and everything else that had been said, it actually hurt to hear that word roll off of his brother's lips, cured or not.

He needed to get to the solace and safety of his room, before he completely fell apart.

Sam took a few shaky steps away from the table, feeling disoriented and lightheaded. He really needed to stay away from alcohol when he hadn't eaten all day. Or was it several days? It hadn't been something Sam had really paid much attention to. He could hear Dean getting closer, which meant he had even less time to run away to his room to hide (because he wasn't afraid to admit to himself that he was actually hiding). He took a few more shaky steps before the bourbon made a violent reappearance, brown liquid spilling from his body and splashing onto the floor with the force of a tsunami.

This couldn't be happening. He wasn't four anymore, he was thirty-one and this had to be one of the most embarrassing things he had done to himself in a long time. He could only hope that Dean wouldn't find him until he got this mess cleaned up, because Dean didn't need another reason to think less of him, another reason to think Sam was a weak bother and a waste of skin and space.

Sam attempted to move to the sink, not only to get a rag to clean up his mess, but also because he wasn't quite sure that would be the only gastrointestinal sporting event of the evening. Sure enough, halfway to the sink his body heaved again and Sam pressed his hand over his mouth, shuddering as warm liquid seeped between his fingers. God, he hated getting sick like this. He made it to the sink with relatively little mess and hung his head down, still fighting the urge to eject everything he had ever eaten in his entire life. The effort was futile, though, and soon he was loudly retching, the noise echoing off the metal basin and pounding into his now-aching skull.

He felt Dean's presence before he heard his brother, and his shoulders fell even further. If it wasn't bad enough to actually be living this experience, now he could do it in front of an audience, an audience who felt like he was a pathetic loser who always needed to be saved. Tears leaked from his eyes, though he would later swear it was just from the force and exertion of his vomiting, not because he was actually crying.

"Hey, hey, breathe." Dean instructed, his voice calm and soothing instead of venomous as it had been hours earlier, "Sammy, breathe."

Sam shook his head, weakly pulling away as Dean put a hand on his shoulder, "You should be resting." He managed to pant between heaves, "I've got this."

Dean ignored him, keeping a steady hand on Sam's trembling shoulder and turning on the water in the sink to wash away some of the evidence, "It'll be over soon, you're okay."

No, Sam wasn't okay. He wasn't sure he'd ever be okay again.

It didn't take long before Sam had moved on to dry heaves, not having had anything in his system other than cheap bourbon, and once Sam was no longer at risk of choking on the foul liquid making its escape from his body, Dean had silently taken a rag and went to work on cleaning the mess on the floor. If anything, it made Sam feel even worse. "No, I've got it." Sam said hoarsely, "Dean, don't."

"This, I can fix." Dean said quietly, his own voice strained and filled with emotion that Sam was too incoherent to really place under the circumstances, "I may not be able to fix anything else that happened here tonight, but let me do this."

Sam remained silent, gripping the edge of the sink to keep from falling over, his breath still coming in quickened gasps as he tried to maintain what little control of his body he had remaining. Instead, he watched Dean clean and thought back to the many other times in their lives that they had been in this same exact position. Dean had always done anything and everything Sam needed, no matter the inconvenience. And how had Sam repaid that debt? By screwing everything up, over and over again.

Sam didn't even realize he was crying until Dean had pulled him into a tight hug in a rare display of affection. "You're fine, Sam." Dean whispered gruffly, "Just breathe and try to stay upright, I'm not dragging your gargantuan ass all the way to your room."

Sam was unable to formulate the words to respond, and instead he let his brother lead him out of the kitchen and towards his room, wishing the floor would swallow him whole. This should be happening the other way around. Dean had been through hell while being cured and should be the one being doted on, being cared for. Instead, Sam had managed to screw that up as well and needed to be rescued, again. He wouldn't blame Dean for hating him at all, he was such a mess.

"This isn't a rescue, this is what family does." Dean said quietly, leading Sam to his bed and flicking on the lamp instead of the overhead light, "I'm not going to lie and say it wasn't absolutely disgusting cleaning up your puke, but it isn't the first time and it isn't the end of the world."

So apparently the alcohol was limiting Sam's ability to think without vocalizing his thoughts. He groaned in response, though didn't protest when Dean pulled off his boots and covered him with a blanket. As much as he hated having to rely on Dean and as confused as he was over Dean's feelings towards him, he couldn't deny that it felt good, it felt right, when Dean resumed his role as big brother and took care of him like he did when they were children and things were so much simpler.

"I missed you, Dean." Sam attempted to say, though he wasn't sure if Dean understood him at all since it came out as an indistinct slur of words. He felt his eyes drooping closed and he didn't bother to fight the urge to pass out, he wanted nothing more than to be unconscious.

Dean smirked as Sam's words met his ears. While most wouldn't have understood Sam in his current state, Dean had always been able to speak Sam-ese, even when Sam could barely form a thought. He moved the empty trash can to the side of Sam's bed, just in case, and said quietly, "Thank you for saving me this time. I know it wasn't easy, I know I made it as hard on you as possible, but no matter what is going on between us, right here is where I want to be."

Sam, though, had already drifted into darkness.


End file.
